


Loathing

by Le_Personne_Inexistant



Category: Mozart l'Opéra Rock - Mozart/Baguian & Guirao
Genre: Gen, Heavy Angst, Self-Harm, Self-Hatred
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-10
Updated: 2017-07-10
Packaged: 2018-11-30 02:56:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 751
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11454534
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Le_Personne_Inexistant/pseuds/Le_Personne_Inexistant
Summary: “Just let me help you!” Mozart cried out.“I-I can't. I don't deserve it.”





	Loathing

Lively music filled the air of the modest opera house. It was sublime, Antonio Salieri couldn't deny it, especially since he was a composer himself. In fact, the operetta itself was sublime. However that wasn't surprising, considering it was _Mozart_ who composed it. The name itself was a viper, it would sink its fangs into him and inject him with poisonous, sickening jealousy. He didn't hate the man, Mozart, although somewhat immature and childish at times, wasn’t cruel or unfriendly. Yet at the same time, he somehow couldn't _stand_ him.

He almost wanted to laugh. His thoughts seemed to juxtapose with the bright, vivacious music. It was ironic. He had always tried to distance himself from Mozart and yet there he was, watching his operetta.

It was awful.

It was brilliant and awful and outstanding and terrible and–it didn't matter. No matter how hard he strived he would never be able to match him. He couldn't bare to stay any longer. He almost felt sick.

He got up abruptly and left the room, ignoring the the curious glances his way as he did. Fortunately for him, there was not a single person out in the hallway. He could still hear the music. It gave him a headache. He wished that he had never bothered coming to the showing.

He leaned against the wall and pulled out several folded up papers from out of his coat pocket. They were drafts of the score for his new oratorio. They were littered with corrections but even with the corrections it just wasn't good enough. Every note seemed like a mistake.

He tore it up furiously. What was the point of keeping it around? It would never be good enough, and would just serve as a reminder of his failures.

He hated it. He hated his mistakes, he hated everything he'd done, he hated Mozart, and he hated _himself_ most of all.

He felt tears well up in his eyes. He trembled as he choked back shaky sobs. He couldn't cry. How pathetic would that have been?

Dear god, he was pathetic.

He hated himself so much. He felt like he would be better off dead. He felt like it wouldn't even make a difference if he had died right then and there. He hated it all.

He reached down into his pocket. He had felt something sharp when he pulled out the papers. His fingers wrapped around the handle of a small pen knife. He brought the knife out and examined it. The blade, though short, was razor sharp. He rolled up his sleeves and looked at his wrists. Scars already lined them, like a blank music sheet.

He took the knife and pressed it into his skin, dragging it across to make another line on his wrist. He repeated the action once, twice, and before he could do it a third time he was interrupted.

“Salieri!”

He turned and saw, of course, Mozart himself. Just his luck.

The younger composer rushed over to him.

“Salieri, what did you do to yourself?” He asked, looking quite worried. He took his hand and examined the cuts.

“Why would you do that? What happened?” Mozart wrapped his handkerchief around his bleeding wrist. “Shit, you're bleeding a lot, come with me.” He began to drag him into the bathroom so that he could wash the cuts but Antonio pulled his hand away from him.

“I'm fine.” Antonio said, his voice sounding hoarse.

“You're bleeding!”

“It's nothing. Stop worrying about it.”

“Salieri, you can't just expect me to just let you leave like this! Let me help!”

“I told you I'm fine. I don't need help.”

“Just let me help you!” Mozart cried out.

“I-I can't. I don't deserve it.”

No, Antonio just couldn't let him help. He didn't deserve his help. After all those times he's wished for Mozart’s failure, he didn't deserve it.

He was an awful person.

“Salieri, please–”

“Don't try to follow me.” Antonio said. Ah is chest felt uncomfortably tight.

He turned his back on him and left. He made sure to round several corners outside, too, just to make sure Mozart was gone.

It was getting late. There were very few people. It wasn't difficult to find an empty alleyway. He collapsed to the ground and finally cried.

He was all alone. And perhaps that was how it was meant to be.

Mozart's words still echoed in his head.

_Just let me help you._

Antonio wished he could have said yes.


End file.
